


Please Just Stay Dead

by miss_nettles_wife



Series: About Charlie Davis. [4]
Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: AU, Gen, No Spoilers, dead animal, light mother/son, reflections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4212408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean awoke to a soft pattering of steps in the kitchen. She slowly made her way in, not sure who to expect at this hour. Much to her surprise, Charlie was standing at the table with a  fruit box, and some flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Just Stay Dead

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Sorry for the short installment, but I'm nervous with writing Jean, and I'm still not sure I'm happy with her character, but here's my best attempt, anyhow. The usual things apply, leave a comment If you liked it, or if you didn't. First chapter with no Blake in it at all, wow. Probably my first fanfic with no Blake in it at all. Can't say this will become a trend. I miss writing him!

Jean awoke to a soft pattering of steps in the kitchen. She slowly made her way in, not sure who to expect at this hour. Much to her surprise, Charlie was standing at the table with a fruit box, and some flowers.   
It was his day off, so she didn't expect him up before noon. Charlie always took his time getting up on his days off, and she suspected that was because he, much like most people, liked a sleep in. Personally, she preferred to be up early. Jean didn't like the feeling of 'wasting time' by sleeping in. She stood out of sight for a moment, listening to him hum softly at whatever he was doing. She waited until he stopped moving to make her appearance. “A little early for you, isn't it?” She asked. Charlie looked up at her and offered a slightly lopsided smile.   
“Couldn't sleep?” He shook his head,   
“Just one of those nights. Did I wake you up?” Jean nodded.   
“But I should be up soon anyway.”   
“Sorry.” He offered, carefully placing a flower in the small box. The box has a logo on the side, but Charlie's arm obscures it from her view.   
“What are you doing?” She asked, moving closer.  
“When I was in bed...I heard a cat fighting outside, and when I went out...” He murmured. Jean looks into the box, and sees a crow lying amongst flowers and a tea towel. It's obviously dead. She looks up at him, and she can see a kindness in his eyes she'd never noticed before. “I realized it wasn't a cat and another cat...But a cat and a bird.” He said, softly. “It didn't stand a chance by the time I got there.” He murmured.   
“So you brought it into the house?”  
“I was expecting to be done by the time anyone else was awake.”  
“Done with what, Charlie?”  
“Burying it.”  
“Oh.” She said, quietly. Charlie puts a small rose by the crows left wing. He looks sad, for another moment. “Do you always bury dead animals?” Charlie shook his head no.   
“No...Not normally.” He said, “I just...Felt bad for it. It's just a crow, you know? Didn't do anything wrong.” She nodded, and then put the kettle on.   
“That's nature for you. It's cruel.”  
“It is.” he said in soft agreement.   
“Why bury it?” She asked, setting two cups on the counter and putting a tea bag in each one. One for her, and one for Charlie. She turns around as the kettle boils to watch him arrange the flowers around the bird carefully. Charlie doesn't reply for some moments, but she can see the gears in his head ticking and wirring.   
“The man who lived above us...His cat used to kill birds all the time. No one really cared except for my brothers and I.” He sighed. “They rotted. Turned to bone. Seemed cruel...To leave them there. So one day we gathered all the bones up, and put them in a little wooden box, with some flowers, I said a prayer, and my brother...The middle one, he dug a hole...And we put them in.” He recounted, slowly. “And from then on, whenever a bird died in our yard, we would bury it.” he said, softly. “I remember once, it killed a white crow…” He said, softly. “And after we buried it...Our dog tried to dig it up.” he said, before shaking his head, and sighing.   
“So you do it to bring a part of home here?”  
“I suppose.” he said, “You don't seem to mind.”  
“I mind very much that there's a dead bird on my table.” Jean replied, “And I also know that you will be cleaning that table very well when you're done there.” She said, looking to the kettle as it finished boiling. Charlie couldn't help but smile at her. He looks down to the bird, and slowly adds another flower.   
“Of course.” He murmured. Jean nodded, and set a cup of tea down for him.   
“You didn't have to make me tea. I'm perfectly capable.” He said, but accepted it anyway.   
“I know. But I wanted too. You look like you haven't slept well in months.”  
“I never sleep well.” he admitted, sitting down, and taking a sip of tea. Jean watches his fingers on the cup, and the slight sadness in his eyes.   
“Why?”  
“Nightmares. Why else?”  
“Ah.” She offered, taking a sip of her own tea. “I'm sure Lucien will give you something if you ask.”  
“I don't want people to take care of me.” He said, rather flatly.   
“No shame in needing help, Charlie.”  
“I know that. I would ask if I did actually need help.” he promised softly. She doesn't believe him, but she lets him slide because it's hard to have a conversation with Charlie, and she doesn't want to drop the one she's managed to have.   
“I know.” She smiled. “But given that you're arranging a funeral for a dead crow on my kitchen table, I think I have the right to be slightly worried about you.” She smiled, trying to lighten the situation again. She looks back into the box, and then to Charlie. “You're wasted as a police man, you should have been a mortician.”  
“You think?”  
“You've certainly made the bird pretty.” Charlie chuckles softly, and sets another flower in with the bird.   
“I hope he appreciates it.” He offers, finally. Jean nods, and smiled slightly at him.  
“Seems like I go to more funerals then weddings these days.” She sighed, “Must be getting old.”  
“Well...I've only ever been to funerals so you're doing better then me.” He smiled.   
“What funerals do you go to?” She questioned.   
“Dad, uncle, grandparents...” He said, with a slight shrug, “And all of those before I was even ten years old.”   
“People die a lot in your life, Charlie?”  
“No more or less then other people, I suppose. We just don't have any close friends for me to attend marriages of.” He smiled. “I imagine my brothers will get married some day.”  
“So will you.” she offered.   
“I guess.”  
“You guess?”  
“Well I don't know if I should get married.”  
“Why shouldn't you?” She asked. Charlie was a nice boy. He would make some nice girl a nice husband. She wondered if she should put her match making skills to good use for him.   
“Well...Being a police man is dangerous...I don't want to get married and have kids...Before being shot or something, and leaving them to fend for themselves.”  
“They'd have the pension.” The single mothers pension is weak, she knew plenty of women forced back into the workforce after the loss of their husband.   
“The pension wouldn't be enough.”  
'I know.' She said, softly. “Is that really how you feel?”  
“Yes.” he said, taking another drink of sip.   
“Well that's very mature of you, Charlie.”  
“Not the first time in my life I've heard that.” He commented, as he sipped his tea.   
“Somehow that doesn't shock me.” She said, “My boy Christoper...He was always very mature. I think the two of you would get on well.”  
“I'm sure he is.” Charlie said, but he doesn't sound convinced. It didn't take a genius to know that Charlie didn't have fond memories of when he met Jack, even if he didn't mention it. Jean Beazley read people like books and Charlie Davis was no different.   
“You remind me a lot of him. So mature. So stoic.” She said, before taking a sip of her tea. Charlie sighs and sets his cup down. He runs a hand though his unstyled hair, and looks at the bird. Jean paused. “Do you know who's cat killed it?” Charlie shakes his head.   
“Even if I did, it wouldn't matter. Nature kills nature, the way it always has. I'm hardly going after a cat for doing what it was built for.”  
“That's...A very mature thing to say.”  
“Second time today I've heard that.” he smiled, taking another sip of his tea. Jean nodded, and then looked in at the bird.   
“Are you going to put up a headstone?”  
“For a bird?” He asked, sounding slightly shocked she would suggest it.   
“You went to all the trouble of dressing it up. Did you make headstones back in the day?” He shook his head no.   
“My stepfather didn't appreciate them.' He sighed.   
“Really?”  
“Hm.” He replied, not giving her a yes or no.   
“You live with him, in Melbourne?”  
“No...No, he walked out on us a long time ago. Which was probably for the better. I hated the way 'Charlie Helter' sounded. Charlie Davis sounds better.” Jean gave him a slightly sideways look.   
“I must agree with you there. Still. Must have been hard.”  
“Not as hard as you would think. Not at first...” He said, “One of my brothers is his son, but...he doesn't know.”  
“Will you ever tell him?”  
“Not unless he asks.”  
“Why?”  
“No one wants to remember him. Funny thing is, I'm the only one who can remember Dad.”  
“Your other brother...”  
“He was my father's child...But when he was born….My father was already at war, fighting.”  
“My Christoper was a solider.”   
“I know.” He offers. “My father was a police man. He was so proud to go to war. Was your husband the same?” Jean nodded.   
“He was, yes. He was a sergeant.”  
“I don't know if my father was ever anything important.”  
“He fought. That's enough.”  
“People have been telling me that since I was ten...But you know? I think they're wrong. Lawson...He fought in North Africa. So did my father. He died at Tobruk.”  
“I always forget where they buried Christoper.”   
“That's for the better Because war is ugly, and if Australians knew what it was really like then they wouldn't have gone.”   
“You're right.” She said, taking a sip of tea. Charlie knocks back the last of his, and carries his cup to the sink.   
“Where should I bury it?”  
“The bird?” He nods.   
“You take him, and I'll show you.” She said, standing up, and indicating to the box. Charlie took the box into his arms, and followed her out to the yard. 

“What do you think?” She asks, showing him a spot under a tree.   
“I like it.” He nods. She smiles.   
“I knew you would.”  
“Do you think he likes it?” Charlie asked, setting the box down on the ground next to the tree. Jean nodded.   
“He's a bird, they like trees.” Charlie nods.   
“Well...I'll need a shovel.” He said, after a minute. “Do we….Have a shovel, Mrs Beazley?” And suddenly Jean is reminded about how short of a time Charlie has really been with them.   
“Yes, we do. In the shed.”  
“Thanks.” He smiled, and went to get it. Once he was gone, Jean looked in at the bird Charlie had so painstakingly prepared, and was hit with an awful feeling of mortality. And perhaps an understanding with Charlie she hadn't felt before. 

Charlie returned with a shovel, and carefully mapped out a hole about the same size as the box. He started digging, and Jean watched him. He was certainly strange man, Charlie Davis. It seemed like he had no compassion, some of the time. She'd seen him arrest people over small crimes, seen him come home beat up, heard him talk so emotionlessly about horrific crimes that would make a normal person ill. And yet, this morning, he went to such trouble to prepare a casket for a dead bird. It was equal parts morbid and kind, she decided. An odd combination, but one she found that she didn't dislike. Once he was sure that the hole was deep enough, he stepped out of his hole, and set the box into it. He looked in at the bird. “Should I pray for it, or something?” He asked.   
“Pray for it?”  
“Isn't that what you normally do, at a funeral?”  
“I don't know if the bird cares.”  
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I'm sorry a cat killed you. But I'm even more sorry that I couldn't save you. I hope this burial plot is enough.”  
“That's very sweet of you. I'm sure the bird forgives you.” Charlie started to shovel dirt into the hole and Jean thinks, briefly that it's a shame that no one else will ever see the pretty coffin Charlie had decorated. Charlie eventually, looks at the plot, and nods to himself.   
“Good.” he smiles. Jean picked up a rock from nearby and put it on top of the grave.   
“Here's his headstone.”  
“It's just a bird.” She studied his profile for a moment, as he studied the dirt, and she can't tell exactly what he's thinking.   
“We both know that it was more then that.”  
“Do we?” He asked, before turning, she stopped him with a gentle hand on the arm.   
“If you want to talk, Charlie...”  
“You're here. I know. People have been telling me that since I was ten years old.”  
“I'm sure they all meant it.”  
“I'm sure you're right. As long as you want to talk about the pretty part of grief. How you miss him, and trade stories about how he used to take his tea with too much milk. The moment your grief becomes ugly, it takes you with it.” He said, with venom heavy in his words. “And people hate ugliness. It's part of human nature.” Jean looks at him for a moment, and nods slowly.   
“I understand that feeling.” She admits, as Charlie looks back at her.   
“I...I know. I'm just...Angry.” he admits. Jean can see something in his eyes that reminds her of a child, one like hers, who's father never came back.   
“If you could say one thing to him, what would you say?” Charlie looks thoughtful. As if he's considering from a number of things. He sighed softly, and then looked at her.   
“What would you tell your husband?” He asked, after a long, long moment.   
“I'd tell him I loved him.” She said, without hesitation   
“I thought you would say something like that.” Charlie murmured, and sat down by the grave.   
“Your turn.” Jean prompted, but not unkindly.   
“I'd tell him...Please just stay dead.”  
“Oh?”  
“Stay gone. I want to move on. I'm ready to stop feeling sad.”  
“It never stops, does it?” Jean asked, sitting next to him. Charlie shook his head no, and looked out to the horizon.   
“No. It never really does.” He offered. “But I wish it would.” Jean patted him lightly on the arm.   
“You and me both. Shall we go have breakfast?”  
“I suppose.” he agreed, getting to his feet.   
“I mean what I said, about needing to talk.”  
“Thank you, Mrs Beazley.” he offered, helping her up. “But I'm fine.” And Jean decides that if nothing else, Charlie Davis is a very good liar.


End file.
